The Foxhole Program
by Tori-Da-Mutt
Summary: When Hydra Programs go rogue, they have an Asset to bring them in. The Foxhole Program, untouched for over thirty years, has a new assignment, and it does not fail. [Post-TWS, Bucky is on the run, Steve and friends are looking for him, and the Foxhole Asset is after them both.] Or, the time I made another story when I had ten others in progress.
1. Chapter 1

She was a sweet girl, according to her teachers. A bit off in the head, couldn't act like a lady to save her life, but kind enough and stood up for other students. It wasn't often that she actually got into fights, but when she did it was quite alarming. They'd never seen a girl who could be so vicious.

She sat in the doctors office stubbornly silent, a black eye and a bruised cheek and a busted lip and blood staining her face from her nose to her chin, though the bleeding had stopped. Her parents were frazzled, talking to the doctor in mostly coherent sentences- they didn't have any idea what had come over her, only that one minute she was beside them, helping with the shopping, and then suddenly she was fist-to-fist against a man only a bit older than she was and there was blood and oh doctor couldn't they _do something_ to fix their little girl who didn't seem to understand that she was a girl?

Nurse Maryanne Fenton looked over the papers in her hands, all the information about the girl listed neatly in boxes. "I'll have to speak with her to know what I'm dealing with," she began, "but I may know of a program that could help. Still being tested, but we can do so free of charge."

The girls mother fluttered her hands about nervously. "I just don't know what to do with her."

"Then we'll do everything we can."

She opened the door, leaving the worried, tired parents outside. The girl looked up to see her with her not-swollen eye, and she smiled carefully. "Hello, dear," she greeted. "I'm Nurse Fenton. I'm here to treat you."

The girl dipped her head, then offered a hand, the knuckles scraped and bloody. "I'm Alice Donnover. A pleasure to meet you, m'am."

"And you, dear." Fenton sat on her stool and leaned in closer to get a good look at the injuries she sported. "Your parents tell me you're almost twenty-one."

"Yes, m'am, a month from now." Alice didn't flinch away while Fenton prodded, despite the grimace that told her she'd like to.

"Can you tell me how all this happened?"

"I was shopping with Mom, and I saw this guy in the aisle I was supposed to get some stuff from trying to get grabby with some girl there with him. I broke it up so she could leave, and he tried flirting with me, so I told him to shut his yap. Then he tried to get grabby, so I hit him, 'n then he hit back, an' next thing I know Mom 'n Dad are dragging me out and bringing me here."

"Seems like he had it coming, then." Fenton looked over the girl head to toe with quick motions while she talked, making sure the only damages were superficial. "Why didn't you just call for your father? I'm sure he could have handled the problem. Or even store security."

"I didn't do nothin' any good person wouldn't have. An' I can handle myself."

"Do you get in fights a lot?"

"Only when they deserve it."

They continued on, Fenton asking questions and Alice answering them with as little of an answer as she could, until all the girls wounds were patched up and ice-packed and Fenton was satisfied that she knew enough.

Leaving Alice in the office, Fenton returned to the Donnover parents, putting on her serious face. "I won't lie, her mental state is a bit twisted. She seems to be utterly convinced that she is as good at fighting as men, and she mentioned that she'd apply for the military if they'd take her." The mother sucked in a sharp breath. "I believe the program I mentioned before could help her. I'll need you two to sign her release, if you're willing. We might be able to fix this before it gets to the point she tries to do anything extreme."

They agreed foolishly quickly, Fenton thought to herself, watching a few feet away while they signed all the required forms, and then she was promising them that their daughter would be back in two months, when she was better. They looked at her gratefully, like she'd just pulled them from a fire, and she smiled in reply. Alice was being prepped for the trip by a doctor, who would then leave it to Fenton to get her traveling. Alice was told that there was a way she could join the war effort the way she wanted to, and her warm brown eyes sparkled as she loaded willingly into the truck for travel.

In two days time, a letter was sent to her parents, informing them that the truck Alice had been traveling in had been in a terrible accident, and their daughter was dead. In two weeks, She was approved for testing Hydra's new derivative of the supersoldier serum(it had taken a lot of arguing, a lot of weight-throwing, and a lot of influential pull to convince them that this girl was the best option for the test, but by god, Fenton was not going to let their program exclude her and hers again). In a month, they determined that the new serum was not as successful as they had hoped, but not a failure, and the subject had shown impressive skillsets, so they continued with their work. Fenton took control over what was named The Foxhole Program, watching over the operations and adjustments and giving the go-ahead for anything that needed approval. Two months, and Alice Donnover was buried in her hometown with a small gathering of family. The Foxhole Program thrived.

* * *

><p><em>My name is Alice. I was born and raised in Albany, New York. I have two sisters and a brother. I was kidnapped for some sort of secret government program-<em>

Pain. Burning. Static.

_My name is Alice. I was born and raised in Albany, New York. I have two sisters and a brother. I was kidnapped-_

Pain. Cold. Static.

_My name... is... Alice. I was Born and raised... in... in... in New York. I have... two sisters. And a Brother._

Pain. Heaviness. Static.

_My name is... Alice. I... have a brother. I have..._

Pain. Heaviness. Cold. Static.

_My name is Alice._

Pain.

_My name... is Alice._

Cold.

_My name... is... Alice._

Weight.

_My... My name is... Alice._

Static.

_My... name..._

* * *

><p>I am Fox. I am a weapon. I take orders, follow through, and ask no questions. I am unstoppable.<p>

* * *

><p>Two years of intensive training went into the Foxhole Program, to bring it up to speed with the other Assets Hydra had accumulated. It's skills were not needed as often once the Winter Soldier Program came into full effect. The Asset was put on ice.<p>

Seventy years later, the Winter Soldier Program went rogue. After a frantic scramble to erect some framework for their organization, the Foxhole Program was reactivated.

* * *

><p>The lights were too bright. They always were. It caused a discomfort in Fox's eyes, but it stared ahead without blinking, waiting for it's handler to arrive. They never used the same handler twice. Two guards stood at attention, firearms held tightly and aimed directly for it's face. It stayed silent.<p>

The door opened, and a thick-set man approached, sitting in front of Fox and placing a file on the table between them among the weapons and tools placed carefully over the silver surface. "Your mission is hunt down a rogue program. You are to find it, disable it, and wait for an extraction team. Checkpoints are set every Seventy-two hours. Any late checkpoints will be assumed disobeying orders. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He turned the file towards it, pushing it closer as permission to open it. "You have one hour to prepare. A drop team will take you to the rogue programs last known location."

The handler left, the two guards resumed their security measures, and Fox opened the file. A picture, sketches of possible minor changes to appearance, programming information, patterns, and finally, in a sealed bag, a scrap of fabric. The bag was packed away in a pocket, then it retrieved and mounted all its weapons on its person. The guards escorted in to the drop team, who in turn loaded it on the plane.

"Asset is secure, let's go!"

The plane jolted, then launched, eventually settling with minimal turbulence. The drop team continued to secure the cargo bay. It sat silently, perched on a box in place of a seat. Static hummed in the right side of it's face, followed by an update to the mission on the optic screen embedded in it's eye. _::Secondary target- if found, detain or destroy as necessary.:: _A list of information followed, scrolling as it memorized the secondary. _::If not discovered, await extract for primary target then proceed for secondary. Preferred state of Secondary is capture.::_

It didn't need to respond- orders were orders and would be executed to the best of available ability. The trail was already a week old. There was no margin for error.


	2. Chapter 2

The drop team was skittish.

It was a passing observation, barely even registering, but it was important information. Skittish meant they might overreact, prematurely switch plans, abandon their post or their duty entirely. Skittish meant erroneous. Skittish was a dangerous variable. Their inherent threat was etched in the creases of worry on their faces, in the tension that held their weapons ready, in the quick glances they tried to be sneaky about when they measured up the asset. Fox would have frowned- they had never assigned it a drop team with so little experience that they were liable to shoot it before the mission even began- but it was not to question decisions. It kept quite and still, telegraphing it's intent when it needed to do anything, even just shift to maintain bloodflow and keep ready for any possible situation. In return, the skittish drop team didn't put a bullet in it.

_"Approaching the landing zone. Prepare to disembark." _The speakers were unsettlingly low quality- it seemed they had pulled together this team and all it's supplies from whatever they could find. The situation must be worse than was implied during it's prep and briefing. More information that needed to be filed away and factored in.

The plane began it's descent, bumping and bouncing along the way in minor turbulence that made the drop team jolt and jittery, and Fox was more careful about shifting. It's left leg was starting to tingle, but a half-numb leg was better than a bleeding wound. The underlings in the drop team passed jokes back and forth for a bit, and it seemed for a moment or two that they calmed some, before their leader barked at them to keep their focus on the mission and they went silent, the skittish etchings fading back into play. Fox did frown now- they needed focus, but they needed to not panic in the middle of a basic extraction, too. It shouldn't have been so difficult for them to make a balance of focus and calm. It had certainly never had trouble of it's own.

The plane bumped the ground and the back hatch light flashed to life, bathing them all in red light. The leader of the drop team- it's temporary handler for the first Seventy-two hours until the first checkpoint- waved his hand about in unacceptably sloppy signals, but the others picked up on it easily enough, and Fox moved to the back hatch, aware of but not acknowledging the barrels of guns aimed at it's back. The locks holding the hatch in place creaked and groaned as they were pried out of place, then the hatch was slowly opening, revealing the ground still moving along beneath them at approximately twenty miles an hour(slightly more than twenty-two, to be precise, but it was close enough that the drop team wouldn't know the difference.) Fox was very sensitive to the twitchings of the team behind it, but it waited at the edge of the hatch until the old speakers burst out "_tuck and roll team" _and then it lurched foreward into the air between the tiny plane and the grassy land below._  
><em>

Something twitched in the depths of it's brain- there was something about this feeling, the freefall before it landed, that felt strange. Not familiar, or even vaguely like a memory, but there was something about the sensation. It couldn't even recall a word for the feeling. Perhaps there wasn't one. It lasted a full second before it filed the thought away as a result of the chemicals and hormones in it's body causing paranoia and arced carefully as it neared the ground, turning into a carefully perfect roll, then skidding over the grass on it's knees for a few feet until the momentum was gone. The drop team landed in a sloppy line with Fox at the point, and it frowned again. Very sloppy. Perhaps they were testing it's response to variables in familiar situations. It made more sense than the possibility that Hydra was truely in shambles enough that this was all they could spare for the mission.

It waited silently for the drop team to reassemble, grumbling and wincing and a couple huffing and puffing, waited without moving while it's handler gave the underlings specific jobs for their stint of the mission, arms waving and spit flying and eyes bright and violent, walked unflinchingly towards the precise coordinates they had for the target's last known position, then finally- _finally, finally- _turned the reins over to it and let it do what it had been created to do.

Sharp eyes scanned the scenery, taking in all the details of what had been happening there over the past week, grinding down the newer additions and pacing around the space and clarifying the image in it's mind until it was down to the bare bones of the situation that had led to the program going rogue. There was a cacophony of footprints from several dozen different shoes and people, and fading marks where something heavy had been dragged from the water and onto the banks. It analyzed this area more closely, because if the rogue program had left any signs of it's direction it would be here, and by some very small chance there was a faint series of boot prints in the mud and dirt, almost trampled into nonexistence by the other prints and marks and the wear of nature but familiar enough because it was the standard issue tread for assets- a somewhat larger version of the boots Fox wore, and with as little hesitation as possible it followed the scuffs and imprints and trampled plantlife along the bank of the water for a ways. The drop team followed behind it as quickly as they could, louder than any team it had dealt with before and almost distracting.

A full mile along, the trail twisted and for a few minutes, Fox lost the lead, and stood silent and still, analyzing the area for another clue to continue the trek. When, after a thorough search, nothing was pointing them onward, it edged closer to the early-morning streets, scanning the buildings from cover. It was a small conglomeration of shops, mostly. The most prominent was a small sells-all store, and after a long glare, it's handler gave the go-ahead to move closer and investigate.

It pulled a coat close over the sheaths and pockets of weapons in it's armor before emerging from the brush and moving down the street. There weren't many people out, only a scattering over the streets in either direction, and therefore very little to base interactions on; Fox determined the best method would be to avoid direct interaction and adjust as necessary. No one looked at it twice as it slunk into the store, head down and face away from any potential cameras, and no one tried to stop it from walking tightly through the aisles. From the front of the store back, it passed a small cluster of clothes racks, followed by five and a half aisles of necessities that one may need for cooking, or cleaning, or maintaining a car, or going out into the woods, then by three and a half aisles of canned and boxed foods, with a refrigerated section that covered the entire back wall. A store, smaller than a supermarket, that sold things made to last and protect.

It wasn't until it passed a section of boxes that claimed to hold all the necessities for a stint in the wilds(excluding food, defined the fine print) that it was sure the rogue program had been there. Only one box was missing from the neat line-up, on the end, where it would be least noticeable. After a moment of analyzing it and mentally cataloging all the supplies it had been given, the asset grabbed a box for itself, hunting through the aisles for a hiking backpack, then doubling back to the food aisles for a cache of non-military-issue MREs, gliding through the checkout without flinching.

"There's a table near the doors, if you'd like to pack everything in the backpack instead of carrying it all home first," the cashier informed it. Fox watched him cautiously for a moment, and when he showed no signs of hostility or anything more than mild interest, it nodded, touching it's chin to sign 'thank you' silently. It wasn't authorized to speak with anyone outside of the drop team and it's superiors. The cashier smiled, showing off many white teeth. "It's no problem, m'am."

Fox moved to the table mentioned, internally criticizing him. It was not a 'm'am.' Everything was swiftly packed away in the backpack, which was them slung over the coat. The packaging from the supplies was buried quietly beneath a pile of other trash from people who had bought things and used the table to pack it away before Fox had come, ensuring that there was minimal proof of it's existence, then it left, returning to the drop team. One of them supplied a map, and with only two minutes spent pouring over it, Fox marked off the places most likely to appeal to the rogue program. It had purchased survival gear, things for hiking and surviving in potentially forested area, meaning it was planning to go off grid, most likely to avoid detection by satellites or cameras.

"God damn," the Lead Handler grumbled. "He's had enough time to get to any of these!"

Fox internally disapproved. This drop team was very, very skittish.


	3. Chapter 3

It took ten minutes of Fox meticulously going over the bank to find another hint of the rogue program. It was so small, so faded, so close to the water and half washed away the fox nearly missed it, even though this was what it was made to do, what it did better than anyone, but the edge of a boot print was enough. Yes, the rogue had come back across the road and into the brush, out of sight. It remembered the racks of clothes- the rogue had probably completely changed their uniform, a sure-fire way to make sure there were no trackers or bugs that could be used to monitor them. The boots had probably been the next thing to go.

An underling of the drop team found one of the boots further along, caught on the rocks in the water. Not far away, there were more footprints, these ones with different tread and likely made with on-foot travel in mind. The tracks were the right size, and headed in the right direction for the asset getting away from the starting coordinates. But the trail ended at the sidewalk, where the odds of finding more hints or clues dropped to barely a fraction of what it was- which wasn't very promising from the start.

The drop team shuffled uneasily, but didn't move to stop it as Fox stepped onto the sidewalk. After all, this was what it had been created for, what it was best at. Tracking. Hunting.

Some deep part of it's brain took over. A few thoughts drifted near the surface, calculations and observations about the world, but the majority of it was so subtle, so instinctive, so silent and fast that it didn't register what it was thinking until the thoughts had flown past. The set-up of the buildings on the street, the direction and strength of the breeze, the flow of pedestrians and the flow of traffic and the flow of the water behind the team and the clues around them of Cardinal directions and common paths, all calculated and analyzed and slotted into the mental picture without hesitation or conscious effort.

After a moment, it felt the faint tug it had come to recognize during training. They had a direction.

It reported this to it's temporary handler, who swore and directed the rest of the team to hide their weapons. "Stealth is priority," he barked at them, and Fox watched them go through the motions, packing their more obvious guns in their packs, pulling jackets over their Kevlar and holsters until they looked passable as 'not assassins,' until it's handler gave it the go ahead to start following the pull that had gotten minutely more insistent as it stood there waiting.

In it's head, it watched a simulated path. The Rogue stepped out of the cover of the brush, glancing about subtly, everything indefinite except it's height and it's shoe size, leaving faint prints on the sidewalk in it's head, before turning and walking quickly away from the scene, falling into the mess of pedestrians and blending in like they had both been trained. Rogue moved along easily, slipping through a faceless crowd, head tilted down away from any cameras that might be in the area. Fox followed easily, with no crowd to speak of but the group in step behind it. Several blocks away, the mental vision stuttered to a pause, the mental picture of the Rogue freezing in place, and it did the same in real life. Fox's eyes opened wider, and it scanned the area again.

They were in a busier area now. More people clogged the streets, and cars were parked at every open space. A police officer patrolled nearby, nodding greetings to everyone he passed. A gaggle of teen girls giggled as they tottered down the street in heels, pecking at phones and sipping from Styrofoam cups. A man who looked in his early thirties was putting up flyers, a stapler balanced on the stack of papers in his arms. A mother lifted her toddler from the street, grumbling about street cleaners not doing their jobs.

It moved towards where the mother had been subtly, scanning the ground. A small mess of shattered glass was scattered over the pavement- 1/6 inch, untinted, tempered. It matched the standard for a car window. The rogue had stolen a car.

It's handler made a disgruntled face when it passed on the information, waving one of the underlings to start a search on car thefts reported on the date the rogue went missing, narrowing down the area. A list of four vehicles was brought up, and Fox took the tablet thrust it's way in stride, tapping each one for details. A 2010 Challenger, A 2014 Charger, an unspecified 2004 Mercedez-

_That one. _The Handler looked over the profile for the stolen vehicle, nodding slowly. "Fits. Inconspicuous, reasonably common, old." He focused on Fox again. "So where'd he go, tracker? A week's long enough to get anywhere he wanted to and dig in."

It pulled up the map that had been marked with potential hideouts, and after a moment of rapid-fire calculations and superimposition of that mental picture, it slowly tapped on one of the marked positions- more of a streak, an area that covered most of western Nebraska and parts of Colorado and Wyoming.

One of the underlings scratched his beard, glancing at it and the Handler. "That ain't exactly a small area, you know."

The Handler glared at him. "Then we'd better get moving."

Underling grumbled a bit more. "I'm just saying, alright? You sure she knows what she's doing?"

"The asset has yet to fail. It's training was considerably more extensive than your own, so shut up and check if we can get a pick up or if we're on our own."

* * *

><p>It took Fourteen hours, thirty-four minutes to arrive at the edge of the target area, so long as the small clock embedded in it's optical array was accurate. The drop team convinced the plane that had dropped them off at the location to land for a hit-and-run pick-up in the same grassy area where they'd made ground, despite Fox's report that it was an unnecessary waste of resources. Unspoken was the calculation that the drop team wasn't efficient enough as a unit to pull off such a quick pick-up. But it's Handler agreed that it was a the quickest way to catch up with their target.<p>

Perched on a crate that held no apparent purpose other from being a perch, it watched and listened to their planning. It's handler had told it to avoid making the team uneasy, then specified that it should keep a distance when possible and not stare, and so it offered no input for their plans or solutions to problems they had not anticipated but it couldn't avoid pointing out, even if only to itself. Instead it planned it's actions in response to the teams failings when those problems arose. It didn't calculate good odds of finding the rogue asset before the team was recalled, which would work for the better, because they were unskilled enough that the rogue would know of their presence long before Fox had any chance of detaining it. Yes, it would be best for it to continue this mission alone.

As they neared the new drop zone, it's Handler spread out a map of the area and started to divide it into sections, instructing each member of the group where they would be in formation. Fox was set to point, where it would have the easiest time sensing any presence not their own. Like a bloodhound, one of the underlings stated. Fox disagreed- bloodhounds were not nearly as lethal as it was.

On the ground, the wooded range was quiet. The drop team took five minutes longer than any team it had used before to ready for the hike; it calculated that they would need to rest within two hours of sundown. A waste of time. It knew the exact amount of time it could remain active before fatigue affected it's abilities- Ninety-six hours at this level, down to just under Seventy-five with previous activity considered- and beyond that how long it could remain active before rest was a necessity(One-sixty-eight hours total) and this team would not last long under even half of that time.

This was relayed to it's Handler when the rest of the team was occupied; this was an important factor to the mission. Lost time meant a chance that the rogue program would catch on and run, which meant a further waste of resources, and it had been trained very thoroughly on efficiency. The Handler gave it a look and warned it to focus on keeping the mission active and less on the problems it seemed determined to find.

It was capable of another seventy-four hours of activity when the team began combing the wood.


	4. Chapter 4

At the end of the drop teams stint with it- to the first check-in, seventy-two hours into the mission- only twenty-two percent of the suspect area had been combed. Fox accepted it's newest update to orders- complete all objectives, collateral damage not limited- and kept it's head bowed submissively until the plane was off the ground and the Handler no longer close enough for his dominance to be applied, then immediately set off to continue the search. Calculations stated that it could increase the percentage covered to twenty-nine before sundown, thirty-six without breaks for refueling.

In the back of it's head, a small voice was whispering, _tick-tock, tick-tock, I'm a clock. _It wasn't familiar, the voice, or the saying, but it didn't matter. There was work to be done.

* * *

><p>Sixty-four percent of the open wood had been put behind it with no sign of anything but the animals that lived there before it spotted the first clue. Ten days after the mission start, two more checkpoints down, and the clue is a thin, clear line stretched between two trees, one end tied tight around a trunk and the other stretching off to another tree, then to another, then finally up to a limb, seven feet off the ground, where it was connected to a six-inch line of little silver bells. A crude sort of alarm, it decided, and carefully stepped over the line so as to keep it's presence hidden. It watched everything more closely now- if the rogue had even sense of purpose to rig alarms, possibly lethal traps weren't much of a stretch.<p>

This proved true about five yards west, where another line had been rigged, close to the ground, tied to a branch stabbed through with fifteen long nails, set so that stepping on or pushing the line would send the branch into either the head, neck, or upper chest. It was a clever set up, Fox could admit. This asset had been the best, before it went rogue, and it would take more than a keen eye to track it down.

A bit more searching made the area seem less like a perimeter and more like a gauntlet of challenges. Alarms lead to branches, branches led to a scattering of pitfalls, pitfalls led to snares and a few small explosives. At last, the traps stopped, and in a tiny clearing that was still protected from above by the thick canopy it found the Rogue's camp, but not the rogue asset. A small ring of stones around a burned hole of ashes was set in the exact center of the clearing, with a drying rack of furs to one side. A pair of branches had been set in the ground, a string between them holding a line of fish over the flames. At the northernmost edge of the camp, two massive boulders had formed a sort of lean-to with a thick tree, and that sheltered space had been lined with the tarp and tent from the survival crate it suspected the Rogue had acquired before it left New York. A stack of furs had been layered over each other towards the back, where it was most protected from the elements, with the sleeping roll- again from the crate- folded neatly at one end. A duffle bag was tucked into a corner close to the makeshift bed. It suspected that the rogue had made sure there was an escape route near the bed, in case it needed a quick out.

Though careful not to touch anything, or leave any sign it had been there, Fox got right up to the edge of the... nest, it supposed the word would do. It smelled musty, with a tang of old blood and sweat, but underneath that was a distinct human scent. Still careful not to disturb anything, it pulled the bagged scrap of fabric from the pocket it had been stored in and tore the plastic open, bringing the scrap to it's face and scenting it. The human scent was easily identified. _Target acquired._

A leaf crunched beyond the edge of the tree line, and that was all the warning it could expect. Rather than wait for the Rogue to act, Fox spun and launched at the sound- and the under prepared rogue. Even after nearly two and a half weeks, the rogue's skills were top notch- it reacted to the attack quickly enough to avoid debilitating injury and throw Fox past it and into a tree. Fox rolled to it's feet and threw itself forth again, pulling a blade from it's sheath as it went, and the Rogue abandoned deflections in favor of quick dodging and quicker blows. Even moving faster, each hit packed power, and the ones Fox couldn't avoid ached, but it had been prepared for this- the mission file had stated the Rogue would not come quietly, and that it favored lethal attacks, in whatever forms were most readily available. But, even as Fox pulled out another blade for attacks, then a shock stick when the first blade was wrenched from it's grasp, the Rogue didn't cause any injures beyond bruises. Even as it calculated openings and points where it should prepare for potentially lethal attacks, the Rogue didn't take kill shots. It didn't register at first, but after the fight passed the two minute mark, it came up as a calculated varable- the rogue was actively avoiding debilitating or lethal attacks.

This was something it could use, it decided, and moved to a series of strikes that would leave no room for anything but a serious injury to counter. The calculations were right- The rogue hesitated for just a second when the opening came, and that was all it took. The shock stick came around and connected to the rogues exposed neck, and when the electricity locked it's muscles and dropped it to the dirt, Fox followed it down, keeping contact until the Rogues eyes rolled. _Target disabled. Call in for extract._

Fox wound nylon ropes around the Rogue to keep it disabled once it recovered from the shock, arms locked behind it and legs pulled tight together, then directed it's attention to the optical display, preparing a message for the extraction team, only for it to display an error message. _'No Signal.' _It would have to get closer to civilization to call in Extract, it decided, and with the sun already dropping towards the horizon, it wouldn't be able to navigate as effectively through the maze of traps, especially carrying the added weight of the rogue. They would have to stay in the camp until dawn.

It glanced around the camp once more, taking stock of everything around them and what weapons were lying about before focusing on the Rogue and waiting for it to recover enough to be mostly functional. It flicked it's gaze everywhere before focusing on Fox in return. Fox spoke first. "Status report."

The rogue stared. "Who are you?"

Fox narrowed it's eyes, both at the wording and the insubordination. "Relay Status report," It repeated.

The rogue twisted in it's bindings, then looked at Fox again. "How did you find me?"

Fox pursed it's mouth and glared. "Relay Status Report," it repeated in a growl, "Authorization Code- Pierce."

The rogue froze up for a moment, the wildness in it's eyes flickering away for a moment, and it opened it's mouth as if to answer before the wildness returned and it snapped it's jaw shut with a _snap. _"I'm not a Machine," it snarled.

Fox bared its teeth. "You are Asset File Seven, Winter Soldier Program, Asset listed as Assault and Threat Elimination Specialist. You are a weapon, and a Rogue Program, and you must be contained before harm comes to the general populace." It's voice was gritty and winded, as if it had been used little in a long time, but no less forceful and authoritative.

The Rogue sneered. "So you memorized my file? You know what they've got in yours?"

"Asset file Three, Foxhole Program, Asset listed as Strategy, Tracking and Containment Specialist. I am a weapon, low risk of programming failure or error, and must return you to Handlers As Ordered before continuing with secondary objectives. Relay Status Report, Asset. _Now_."

The rogue glared at it with a very human-like hate in it's eyes. Fox silently and internally determined that it's programming had erred far worse than was reported- the two of them, they were not _people, _and they were programmed to acknowledge that. They were weapons, and the highest quality or their kind. Rogue finally spat out, "Five hours since I last ate, ten since I last slept, Eighteen Days since I started fixing myself."

Fox stared it down. "Repairs were unauthorized and faulty. Efficiency?"

Rogue glared darker. "I could walk non-stop for about twelve hours before I had to stop. Give or take ten minutes for possible refueling."

"Damages?"

"I'm _fine,"_ Rogue hissed at Fox. "Better than I've been in years."

"Lying."

The Rogue went silent for a moment while Fox stirred the coals in the fire and added a small amount of wood. "...What?"

"You lied. I asked for damages- your arm is malfunctioning and your programming is scrambled. Mental state has declined since escape, Efficiency has deteriorated, Mission Effectiveness is failing. Unfit for deployment. Submit for maintenance." It was stated as a fact, because that was what it was, but the Rogue seemed to strongly disagree. It immediately tensed and started struggling against it's bindings again, trying to break the rope through brute strength, but the electric shock had done damage to it's mechanized arm, which was no longer responding. Fox grabbed it by the chin and turned it's face up. "Submit for maintenance or you will be disabled."

_"Go to hell!" _It spat, but after a few more seconds of fruitless struggling, it went limp in grudging submission. Fox wasted no time, promptly conducting a cursory search for any damages it hadn't noticed already, then moving to address the damaged arm. Fox had only been given cursory information on maintenance for the mechanics of it, enough to ensure that both assets could get to the extraction point without having to leave anything important behind, but it was enough to get the arm functional at the minimum.

The rogue didn't speak again.


End file.
